“We’ll be caught,” said Helva in a grim tone to Jennan on their private connection. “We’ve lost 18 minutes in this last-minute rush. I am now overloaded for maximum speed and I must attain maximum speed to outrun the heat wave.”
“Can you lift? We’re suited.”
“Lift? Yes,” she said, doing so. “Run? I stagger.”
Jennan, bracing himself and the women, could feel her sluggishness as she blasted upward. Heartlessly, Helva applied thrust as long as she could, despite the fact that the gravitational force mashed her cabin passengers brutally and crushed two fatally. It was a question of saving as many as possible. The only one for whom she had any concern was Jennan and she was in desperate terror about his safety. Airless and uncooled, protected by only one layer of metal, not three, the airlock was not going to be safe for the four trapped there, despite the spacesuits. These were only the standard models, not built to withstand the excessive heat to which the ship would be subjected.
Helva ran as fast as she could but the incredible wave of heat from the explosive sun caught them halfway to cold safety.
She paid no heed to the cries, moans, pleas, and prayers in her cabin. She listened only to Jennan’s tortured breathing, to the missing throb in his suit’s purifying system and the sucking of the overloaded cooling unit. Helpless, she heard the hysterical screams of his three companions as they writhed in the awful heat. Vainly, Jennan tried to calm them, tried to explain they would soon be safe and cool if they could be still and endure the heat. Undisciplined by their terror and torment, they tried to strike out at him despite the close quarters. One flailing arm became entangled in the leads to his power pack and the damage was quickly done. A connection, weakened by heat and the dead weight of the arm, broke.
For all the power at her disposal, Helva was helpless. She watched as Jennan fought for his breath, as he turned his head beseechingly toward her, and died.
Only the iron conditioning of her training prevented Helva from swinging around and plunging back into the cleansing heart of the exploding sun. Numbly she made rendezvous with the refugee convoy. She obediently transferred her burned, heat-prostrated passengers to the assigned transport.
“I will retain the body of my scout and proceed to the nearest base for burial,” she informed Central dully.
“You will be provided escort,” was the reply.
“I have no need of escort.”
“Escort is provided, XH-834,” she was told curtly. The shock of hearing Jennan’s initial severed from her call number cut off her half-formed protest. Stunned, she waited by the transport until her screens showed the arrival of two other slim brain ships. The cortege proceeded homeward at unfunereal speeds.
“834? The ship who sings?”
“I have no more songs.”
“Your scout was Jennan.”
“I do not wish to communicate.”
“I’m 422.”
“Silvia?”
“Silvia died a long time ago. I’m 422. Currently MS,” the ship rejoined curtly. “AH-640 is our other friend, but Henry’s not listening in. Just as well, he wouldn’t understand it if you wanted to turn rogue. But I’d stop him if he tried to deter you.”
“Rogue?” The term snapped Helva out of her apathy.
“Sure. You’re young. You’ve got power for years. Skip. Others have done it. 732 went rogue 20 years ago after she lost her scout on a mission to that white dwarf. Hasn’t been seen since.”
“I never heard about rogues.”
“As it’s exactly the thing we’re conditioned against, you sure wouldn’t hear about it in school, my dear,” 422 said.
“Break conditioning?” cried Helva, anguished, thinking longingly of the white, white furious hot heart of the sun she had just left.
“For you I don’t think it would be hard at the moment,” 422 said quietly, her voice devoid of her earlier cynicism. “The stars are out there, winking.”
“Alone?” cried Helva from her heart.
“Alone!” 422 confirmed bleakly.
Alone with all of space and time. Even the Horsehead Nebula would not be far enough away to daunt her. Alone with a hundred years to live with her memories and nothing… nothing more.
“Was Parsaea worth it?” she asked 422 softly.
“Parsaea?” 422 repeated, surprised. “With his father? Yes. We were there, at Parsaea when we were needed. Just as you… and his son… were at Chloe. When you were needed. The crime is not knowing where need is and not being there.”
“But I need him. Who will supply my need?” said Helva bitterly.
“834,” said 422 after a day’s silent speeding, “Central wishes your report. A replacement awaits your opt at Regulus Base. Change course accordingly.”
“A replacement?” That was certainly not what she needed… a reminder inadequately filling the void Jennan left. Why, her hull was barely cool of Chloe’s heat. Atavistically, Helva wanted time to mourn Jennan.
“Oh, none of them are impossible if you’re a good ship,” 422 remarked philosophically. “And it is just what you need. The sooner the better.”
“You told them I wouldn’t go rogue, didn’t you?” Helva said.
“The moment passed you even as it passed me after Parsaea, and before that, after Glen Arhur, and Betelgeuse.”
“We’re conditioned to go on, aren’t we? We can’t go rogue. You were testing.”
“Had to. Orders. Not even Psych knows why a rogue occurs. Central’s very worried, and so, daughter, are your sister ships. I asked to be your escort. I… don’t want to lose you both.”
In her emotional nadir, Helva could feel a flood of gratitude for Silvia’s rough sympathy.
“We’ve all known this grief, Helva. It’s no consolation, but if we couldn’t feel with our scouts, we’d only be machines wired for sound.”
Helva looked at Jennan’s still form stretched before her in its shroud and heard the echo of his rich voice in the quiet cabin.
“Silvia! I couldn’t help him,” she cried from her soul.
“Yes, dear, I know,” 422 murmured gently and then was quiet.
The three ships sped on, wordless, to the great Central Worlds base at Regulus. Helva broke silence to acknowledge landing instructions and the officially tendered regrets.
The three ships set down simultaneously at the wooded edge where Regulus’ gigantic blue trees stood sentinel over the sleeping dead in the small Service cemetery. The entire Base complement approached with measured step and formed an aisle from Helva to the burial ground. The honor detail, out of step, walked slowly into her cabin. Reverently they placed the body of her dead love on the wheeled bier, covered it honorably with the deep blue, star-splashed flag of the Service. She watched as it was driven slowly down the living aisle which closed in behind the bier in last escort.
Then, as the simple words of interment were spoken, as the atmosphere planes dipped in tribute over the open grave, Helva found voice for her lonely farewell.
Softly, barely audible at first, the strains of the ancient song of evening and requiem swelled to the final poignant measure until black space itself echoed back the sound of the song the ship sang.
A PLANET NAMED SHAYOL
by Cordwainer Smith
A little mere than ten years ago, a story by a completely unknown writer, published in an otherwise unremarkable semi-amateur magazine, provoked a storm of Interest and inquiry among other writers and editors. “Cordwainer Smith” had all the true ring of the pseudonym, and the quality of the story was professional; but its content and style were so fresh that the pen-name could not be attached to any established writer in the field.